She is a managing woman; but she can
nearly always prove herself right. Her mind ran a great
deal, a little too much perhaps, upon creature comforts,
and I suppose she thought that in emigrating a man might
do well to companion himself."
"That was prudent of her," said Advena.
He turned a look upon her. "You are not--making a mock
of it?" he said.
"I am not making a mock of it."
"My aunt now writes to me that Miss Christie's home has
been broken up by the death of her mother, and that if
it can be arranged she is willing to come to me here. My
aunt talks of bringing her. I am to write."
He said the last words slowly, as if he weighed them.
They had passed the turning to the Murchisons', walking
on with the single consciousness of a path under them,
and space before them. Once or twice before that had
happened, but Advena had always been aware. This time
she did not know.
"You are to write," she said. She sought in vain for more
words; he also, throwing back his head, appeared to search
the firmament for phrases without result. Silence seemed
enforced between them, and walked with them, on into the
murky landscape, over the fallen leaves. Passing a
streetlamp, they quickened their steps, looking furtively
at the light, which seemed leagued against them with
silence.
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